Back at your parents

It’s too late to return to the city. That’s why you’d brought keys to your parents’ place. Your parents were gone, but you still viewed it as their place. You half expect to see your mother open the door before you reach it. You half expect to hear her voice calling as you unlock the door and enter. But she’s gone. The house is empty, musty and filled with memories.

It’s a detached house, in a street of detached houses, built between the wars, before space became king and houses shrunk. The ceilings are high. The rooms are large. It was built for a bigger family than your parents ever had. It had always felt roomy, even when there were the three of you filling it. It feels positively cavernous now.

To bring some life you throw open the windows to let the summer evening warmth in, but the chill of mourning remains. Too many memories. Memories you’d tried to run from by not acknowledging them. Failed. You should have sold this place, but that would have required you emptying it of your parents’ belongings, of your memories.

The house is big. On the ground floor you entered a hallway that had doorways to a lounge, a dining room, a large, dated kitchen, a small bathroom and another room that had been converted into a bedroom when your mother had grown too frail to climb the stairs. Off the lounge there’s a conservatory.

Upstairs there are four bedrooms. The master bedroom has the biggest bed you’ve ever seen. You’ve never understood why your parents had such a big bed. You do know they had difficulty getting sheets that would cover the mattress and thus when they did buy sheets for their bed they’d buy them in bulk. The master bedroom has an ensuite bathroom, with bath and separate shower. There’s also another bathroom which in your youth had effectively been yours. There’s also attic space, but you hadn’t even dared to go into the attic for years, and you’ve no idea what’s up there, except there’s space for entire new floor if you ever wanted it.

There’s no garage, just a bricked drive long enough for a couple of cars at most, protected by a gate you have to open. Half the front garden is lawn, protected by a hedge with a smaller gate that opens to a path that leads to the front door. At the back there’s a large garden, half of it lawn, half of it a profusion of bushes and flowers. Your father had been a keen gardener. When he had gone, your mother had employed a gardener. The garden is in surprisingly good shape for having been ignored for months, almost as if someone was tending it. It can be accessed from the front without going through the house through a locked gate.

In doorway there’s a pile of mail. Mostly junk. You had managed to set up a forwarding address for anything important. You’re sorting through this mail when the doorbell rings.

It’s Mrs Peterson, the grey haired, eighty-year old next door neighbour, all angles and bones and sharp eyes. The Petersons have always lived next door. They were older than your parents. Their children were older than you.

“Oh, it’s you. Didn’t recognise the car and wondered who was here,” she says as she sees you.

“It’s just me, Mrs Peterson. Just here for the night. Although I might be moving back permanenty.”

She looks at you sceptically. “You might.”

Yes, you might. Even if you don’t get the job at St Perpetua’s you might have to move back, because you can’t afford the rent on your flat in the city without a job, but the house is yours and mortgage free.

“Good, someone should be living here. Your mother loved this place, you know. She really wanted you to move back here. Hated you living so far away. Wanted you where you belong, here.”

You indulge her with a smile and let her waffle on. It’s fifteen minutes before she finishes and you can close the door on her. You turn back to the house.

You’re hungry, but there’s nothing in the fridge. Should you sort out the house and order takeaway, or should you go out for a meal?